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It has occurred to me that this whole blogging thing is really just a series of interior monologues.  A way of talking things over with, well with…Me.  Of course, if I want to go all rhapsodic and theatrical about it, I could call it a soliloquy.

But that’s a bit grandiloquent, don’t you think?

I wonder…when people hear the word “blog,” are they really thinking “blah, blah, blah”?

Hmm, probably.

Social Media, I think we all can admit, is a way to have lots and lots of friends that you don’t have to actually interact with.  With Facebook, for example, you can stay in touch with people without really having to talk to them.  You can pretend to be close but not actually have to reach out and do anything to maintain that closeness.  That’s so cool!

And so sad.

Perhaps this blog is a way of saying what’s on my mind without ever having to look someone in the eyes and tell them what’s on my mind.  This way, I don’t have to witness the censure in their eyes.  I’m not aware of the drooping eyelids, the barely suppressed yawns.  Instead, I can conjure up a friend—like Snoozer, my stuffed clown that I’ve had since I was one year old.  I can prop the now lackluster stuffed being against a pillow on my couch, smile, and pretend that he/she is smiling back at me.  I can start in on my complaints or critiques or moans or whatever I’m prattling about this time—all of it, I assure you, “full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing”—and Snoozer will just sit there with that blank, idiotic clown grin.

This week, I’ll probably be doing a lot of that blah, blah, blogging stuff.  I’m sitting with the grandkids for nine days.  I can’t say babysitting, because they are no longer babies.  I’m a little nervous about this, and I’m not exactly sure why.  It’s not like I’m a novice at this sort of thing.  I started taking care of Granddaughter when she was a month old, and kept her everyday until she started kindergarten.  I homeschooled her for second and third grade and homeschooled Grandson for first grade.  They lived with me for three years, so trust me when I say I’ve clocked many an hour with them.

I’ll be staying at their house and trying to maintain their schedules, which go something like this:

School at 8:00 (the school is 12 miles away)         Pick up from school at 3:30
Cub Scouts                                                             Girl Scouts
Piano Lesson                                                          Volleyball Practice
Small Group at their Church                                       Volleyball Game
Homework                                                               Piano Practice
Meals, Baths, Lunches, Prayers

“They’re Coming to take me away, ho-ho-hee-hee-ha-ha” 

Part of the trepidation I have is that Grandson is having some behavioral issues, i.e. notes home from school for talking too much or for playing to rowdily on the playground (stuff that teachers used to be able to…well, you know…whack a kid for doing.  Of course, today that would be the sure path to unemployment lines and insolvency from defense litigation)

The other concern I have about this next week is that Granddaughter is Type 1 Diabetic.  I’ve learned over the past two years how to give her the shots, and I’ve counted the food carbs and calculated the formulas necessary for administering her insulin.  But her mother is a teacher in her school and is usually there to handle the blood sugar highs and lows.  I’ll be at least twenty minutes away from the school, and her mother will be for nine days over a thousand miles away.

So, yes, I’ll probably be talking to myself a lot this week.  A lot of blah, blah, blogging.

The other possibility will be that I don’t blog at all.  By the time they are down for bed, I may just sit and veg with Netflix.  Still, it’s always nice to have someone with whom to share a day’s trials and triumphs (small though they might be).

The other night I wasted a few hours of my life with a B movie on Bravo.   Have you ever watched a movie that’s just kind of stinky?  I mean really stinky.
And yet there’s something about it that grabs you.  What I find is that the something is usually the dialogue.  No matter how bad the plot line is in a film, the dialogue may just zing inside your head.  In fact, you might wish you had been clever enough to have written such witty lines of repartee.

I strive to be a writer.  Aside from articles and essays and blogs, I strive to write novels and screenplays.  They exist as venues for characters to interact with one another.  And they do that through expressions and body language and action.  But. primarily, they interact through dialogue.  And good dialogue is rare—in films and in life.

How often do we say what we mean?  How often do we actually communicate what we feel, what we long for, what we hate or love or are passionate about? (The exception to this pattern is Husband of Mine, who has no trouble communicating and COMMUNICATING WITH GUSTO! on the current state of our country’s political affairs).  But for the masses, in general, dialogue consists of How’s it goin’?  Fine.  You?  Oh, yeah, I’m good.  Great.  Really.

Zzzzzzzzzzz!

Who are we trying to fool?  We’re not fine.  Not really.  None of us is fine. We’ve all got…Stuff.  We’ve got so much stuff, in fact, that most people I know are taking Zantac, Prozac, Z-Pac, Lipitor, Zocor—various diuretics, nsaids, or steroids.  Even serums for something called Low-T.  What will those pharmaceutical gurus think up next?  And have you noticed that the side effects for most of these products are worse than the original symptoms? (One of the side effects for an antidepressant advertised on television is that it may cause worsening depression and suicidal tendencies!)  Thanks, but no thanks.

So, we’re not fine, and we need to say that.  We need to make an effort to communicate with one another.  I didn’t realize that until I watched this stinky little movie with the great dialogue where characters actually spoke what they felt.  We don’t talk to one another.  We don’t say what’s on our mind.  We don’t tell each other that we hate the fact that our 401-Ks are in free-fall, that our children often act like brats and drive us crazy, that our jobs have become redundant and meaningless, that our faith has faltered or is lacking even an ounce of joy.

So, here I am again, late at night, talking to no one in particular.  Talking to the Air. I’m not face to face with anyone.  I’m just pondering and contemplating and musing about nothing of consequence.  I’m just talking to myself, once again.  My interior monologue.

My Soliloquy.

“…A poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more…”


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